


Hearts Are Such Fragile Things

by honeynoir (bracelets)



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-18
Updated: 2012-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-31 09:41:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bracelets/pseuds/honeynoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A discussion regarding broken hearts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hearts Are Such Fragile Things

They’re in a club, but in a private room. It’s dark despite an assortment of flickering candles, and the silence is cloying.

River breathes out a sigh, wills him to speak, would have said so; but she can’t push him on this. The wine in her glass has exactly the same colour as the tablecloth; red as blood.

“I’ve never been a heartbreaker before,” he says, finally, and looks down at his fidgeting hands with disgust — as if they’ve actually torn a heart to shreds.

She raises a brow but holds her tongue.

“River… is this even real? I think about wanting to talk this through, and then I’m here.”

“Might be a dream. Might be the arrangement I have with the TARDIS.”

He sets his jaw and furrows his brow at her — but then his face falls again. “It’s not my fault. Amy… Rory… they both end with a ‘y’. It’s destiny.” Then suddenly he blushes, if just a little.

River can guess why, but she can’t be bothered teasing him tonight. “She waited for you.”

“ _I know_.”

“Yes. But do you understand?”

“I made a mistake, so kill me!” he snaps. A moment later, his eyes sag shut.

She doesn’t want to interpret that; she wants to reach across the table and stroke his cheek, but her hands are limp and useless in her lap. “I can’t fix this for you. I’m sorry.”

“I never asked! I just wanted to analyse–”

“And you’re not ready to talk yet. You might think you are, but I know that better than you.”

She has to leave. The silences; the many tiny flames; the darkness flickering in and out of existence; the despair he’s broadcasting; her hands tied by the _future_ … She needs the noise, the pulse, the life on the other side of the door. She slips out of her seat, leaving her wine half-finished. “Until later, dear.”

He inclines his head, still silent.

She’s almost at the door, when…

“Have I broken yours?” The words are low, but perfectly, desperately, articulated.

She looks back; she does look back. She smiles, and she can feel how strained and thin an excuse for a smile it is; so she shows some teeth. “I break my own.”

* * *


End file.
